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Little Florida Lady, A

<h3> CHAPTER II </h3> <h3> The New Home </h3> The house on the place just described was a rambling two-storied building with many porches—a typical vine-covered Southern cottage. It was picturesque from every side, and seemed to have no prosaic back. Marechal Niel roses, and honeysuckles, and some tropical vines, climbed over latticework almost to the roof. There were, also, many trees near the house, some of which were rare. <h3> [Illustration: Beth's new home. (Illustration missing from book)] </h3> A colored woman bustled out of a side door, and looked down the road leading to the gate through which the Davenports' carriage had entered. Evidently, she was no common negro, but had served "quality" all her life—a typical old-time mammy. A red bandanna was drawn tightly over her short curly wool. Her dress was of flowered calico, and around her neck was a brilliant-hued shawl. A neat gingham apron covered her skirt. Her face broke into a smile, and she pointed to the palm-lined driveway. "Yo' Titus—yo' Glory—Indianna—all yo' niggahs come hyere. De new massa and missus am comin'," she called. Out from the house, from the fields, from the quarters, they came trooping; old and young; weazened and pretty; black and yellow; all rolling their gleaming black eyes in the direction of the carriage which they saw come to a sudden standstill. "What's de mattah?" they cried, and one young darky started down the road to see. He beheld January descend from the carriage, and walk to a persimmon tree and pluck some of the fruit. The darky wondered what was to be done with the fruit that he knew was still green. His curiosity made him sneak up within earshot. January returned to the carriage, and handed the fruit to Beth. The darky heard him say: "I wouldn't eat dem, Missy Beth, if I wuz yo'. Dey am powerful green." To her the little round fruit looked very tempting, especially the light yellow ones. Therefore she did not heed him. She selected one, but, instead of taking a dainty nibble, she put the whole fruit into her mouth, and bit down on it. Immediately, she set up a cry, and spit out the persimmon. "Ow-ow-ow, how it puckers!" January chuckled, and, before driving on, he said: "I tole yo' so, Missy Beth." Marian laughed until she was tired. "Beth, if you are drawn up inside the way your face is outside, it must be terrible." "It is. It is." But she did not receive any sympathy. Even Mr. Davenport laughed at her. He had told her not to have January get them, but she had insisted on having her own way. "Beth," he said, "I hope this may teach you a lesson. You must not taste things that you know nothing about." Her mouth was still so drawn up that she did not care to do any more tasting—at least, not for the present. When she thought nobody was looking, she let the rest of the persimmons roll out of the carriage. "What do they all do?" asked Beth as the carriage came to a standstill, and she noted the waiting negroes. As January helped her out, he chuckled, and swelled visibly with pride. "Dey all work for us, Missy Beth. She's de boss," he added in a low tone pointing to the colored woman with the bandanna. "Dat's Maggie; yo'd bettah make up with her." <center> <ANTIMG SRC="images/img-040.jpg" ALT="Maggie, a typical old-time mammy." BORDER="2" WIDTH="352" HEIGHT="514"> <h4> [Illustration: Maggie, a typical old-time mammy.] </h4> </center> The darkies courtesied. Their manners were of the old school. Beth ran up to Maggie. "I hope you'll like me, Maggie, for I know I'll like you." Maggie's face beamed. "Of cou'se, honey, I jes' kan't help likin' yo'. Yo'se de sweetest little missy I knows," and then she added: "Massa, I'se 'sidered yore proposition, an' me an' Titus 'cided to stay." "All right, Maggie. You can show Mrs. Davenport and the children around the house." Marian was willing to go with her mother, but Beth hung back. "I don't care for the house. I want to see the front yard and river. May I go, papa?" "If you'll come back in half an hour, you may go." "All right, papa," and Beth was off like a flash around the corner of the house. She was impatient to see everything in that half hour. She felt that she needed a thousand eyes. The trees bewildered her. There were so many varieties she had never seen before—magnolias with their wonderful glossy foliage; bamboos with their tropical stalks covered with luxuriant green; pomegranates; live-oaks and water-oaks; the wild olive with its feathery white blossoms, and many others. The moss on the oaks swayed back and forth, seeming to murmur, "Beth, these trees are the best of playfellows. Climb up here with us. We'll have great fun," but she would not heed them. There was too much to see. All of a sudden, she stopped perfectly still. She thought there must be a fairy up in one of the trees with the most wonderful voice she had ever heard. Such singing, she thought, was too sweet to be human. She looked up and beheld a bird of medium size, and of plain plumage. It cocked its little head to one side, and eyed the child as if it knew no fear. It sang on undisturbed. "Beth," this is what the warbler said to her, "come up into this beautiful tree with us. Stay with us." The enticement of the bird, added to the fascination trees had for her, was almost too much for so little a girl to resist. However, she put her fingers into her ears, and ran on. But, she did not escape temptation thus. Countless beds of roses, of geraniums, and of many other flowers tempted her to linger, and gather the fragrant blossoms, but, still she did not succumb, for there was greater beauty ahead. She beheld a lovely avenue formed of orange trees and red and white oleanders trimmed to a perfect archway. The winter had been a mild one. Not only did luscious ripe oranges cling to the trees, but green fruit was forming, and there was, also, a wealth of fragrant blossoms. The oleanders, too, were coming into bloom. Beth stopped for a moment to draw in some of the wonderful fragrance that filled the air. No perfume is more delightful than that of orange blossoms in their native grove. The fruit, too, looks more tempting on the trees. The glistening green leaves are just the right setting for the golden yellow balls. Beth wished to stop and eat some of the fruit, but again she proved firm. She ran on and on under the shade of the archway that extended a quarter of a mile at the very least. She ran so fast that her breath shortened and her cheeks flamed. At the end of the avenue was an arch of stone covered with climbing Cherokees spread in wild confusion. Beth did not stop to gather any of the pure, fragrant blossoms, for right in front of the arch was a wharf leading out on the beautiful St. Johns. The river was from one to two miles wide at this point. It glistened and rippled under the brilliant sunshine. As Beth ran out on the wharf, she thought she had never seen a sight more charming. The wharf extended far out into the river, and near the end of it, Beth came suddenly upon a boy with a loaf of bread in his hand. She stopped undecided, and looked at the boy. He was, perhaps, three or four years older than Beth. His hair was as light as hers was dark. His eyes were blue, and his naturally fair skin was tanned. He looked up at Beth for an instant, and frowned. "What are you doing here, little un? I don't like girls to bother me. Go away." If there was one thing above another that made Beth's temper rise, it was to be called "little one," and to be twitted upon being a girl. She felt like making up a face at this boy, but, instead, she assumed as much dignity as she could command. "I won't go away. This is my place. What are you doing here?" The boy laughed incredulously. "Your place, indeed. The Marlowes own this place, and they are away. Good-bye." This was too much for her. She stamped her foot in rage. "I won't go. My papa bought this place to-day." He looked a little interested. "Indeed? What's your name?" "Elizabeth Davenport;" she said 'Elizabeth' to be dignified, "and really my father owns the place." "If what you say is so, I'd better go," he said somewhat sheepishly. She relented. "Oh, I'll let you stay." "I'm not sure I want to. I don't like girls. They're 'fraid-cats." "I'm no 'fraid-cat," and her eyes snapped. "How can you prove it, Elizabeth?" "Don't call me that. I hate to be called Elizabeth." "But you told me that was your name." "Everybody calls me Beth. If you're nice, you may call me Beth." "All right. How are you going to prove you're no 'fraid-cat, Eli—Beth?" She pondered a moment. "'Fraid-cats cry when they're hurt, don't they?" "Of course. So do girls." "I don't cry when I'm hurt," and she looked triumphant as if that settled the matter. "Once when I was a little bit of a girl——" "You're pretty small now." "I'm a big girl, and you shouldn't interrupt. Well, once Marian——" "Who's she?" "She's my sister. Well, I wanted to light the gas, but Marian said I was too small, but I'd not listen. I jumped up on a rocker to light the gas. The chair rocked and, I fell against the windowsill. Marian screamed, 'Beth's killed. She's covered with blood!'" "Were you really?" "Yes." Beth felt she was arguing her case well. "Mamma thought I just had the nose bleed, but what do you s'pose? I had two mouths." The boy's eyes grew big. "Two mouths—how jolly. How did it happen?" "The window-sill had cut me right across here," she pointed to the space just below her nose. "The doctor took five stitches, and when it healed, took them out again. It hurt very much, but I didn't cry a bit." "Didn't it leave a scar on your face?" She threw back her head. "There, do you see that little white line under my nose? You can hardly see it now." The boy examined the spot critically. Then he changed the subject. "Where did you live before you came here?" "New York." "Did you like it there?" "No, it was horrid. I hated to be dressed up and sent for a walk." He looked incredulous. "Most girls like to be dressed up." "I don't." "Don't you like to be told you are a pretty little girl with nice clothes?" "No, I don't." He sniffed disdainfully. "Oh, go long. I don't believe that." Beth grew very much in earnest, and thought of another little illustration. "Truth 'pon honor. One day a strange lady in a store put her hand on my head, and said: 'What a pretty little girl.' It made me mad, so that I just grunted and made up a face at her. My mamma said, 'Why, Beth, that is very naughty.' I said, 'Well, mamma, what business is it of hers whether I am pretty or not? It isn't my fault if I am pretty and people shouldn't bother me.'" The boy laughed. "I believe I rather like you, Beth, but I only have your word for it that you are not like other girls. I have a big mind to try you. Shall I?" She was a little afraid to consent, but she was ashamed to show it. So she delayed matters by asking "How?" The boy drew down his face until it was very long, and when he spoke it was in an awe-inspiring whisper. "Swear never to tell what I tell you. Repeat after me, 'Harvey Baker——'" "Is that your name?" "Yes—don't interrupt me. 'Harvey Baker, if I tell what you show me, I hope I may be forever doomed and tortured.'" Beth looked shocked. "I won't say that." "'Fraid-cat. 'Fraid-cat." Again she stamped her foot. "I won't be called that. It's not true. I will promise not to tell. Can't you believe me?" The boy considered. "Girls are hardly ever to be trusted, but I'll try you. In this river there is a great, big, black animal that hates fraid-cats as much as I do. He eats them up. Why, he has such fierce jaws and sharp teeth that he could gobble up a little girl like you in one mouthful." Beth felt that her hair must be standing up on end. She would have run away, had not pride detained her—and then the recital rather fascinated her. Harvey continued, relishing the effect of his story: "Now I have only to whistle to have the awful animal appear. His head will slowly rise above the water. His jaws will open. His teeth will gleam. If any little girl cries, he will snap at her, and it will be good-bye girl. Now, if you are not a fraid-cat you'll say, 'Harvey Baker, whistle.'" She wanted to run more than ever, but instead she repeated slowly: "Harvey Baker, whistle." The boy pursed up his lips, but he then made an impressive pause, and finally pointed his finger at Beth. "Elizabeth Davenport, remember. If you give the least little bit of a cry, you die. But, if you keep perfectly still, and never tell what you see, I am your friend for life." Thereupon he whistled very shrilly. Beth's eyes were glued upon the water. Every little ripple seemed to her excited imagination an awful head rising to gobble her up. However, nothing appeared. Beth gave a sigh of relief. "Harvey Baker, you were fooling." He motioned to her to be silent. Again, he whistled. Still no horrible head appeared. Beth was now fully convinced that he was only making believe, but still she could not take her eyes off the water. For the third time, Harvey whistled. Suddenly the waters parted. There, right below them, was a head more fearful than anything Beth had imagined. There was no doubt of the reality of this fearful apparition. The jaws and teeth that Harvey had spoken about were even worse than he had predicted. Slowly, slowly, those loathsome jaws parted. Beth looked down into that awful gulf, like a great dark pit, opening to receive her. There were the two rows of gleaming white teeth ready to devour girls who screamed. How she kept from screaming she never knew. Perhaps she was too much paralyzed with fear. However, she kept so still that she hardly breathed. The color ebbed out of her face. Harvey picked up some meat that lay on the wharf beside him, and threw that and the bread into the waiting mouth below. The jaws snapped together, and opened again as suddenly. Beth shuddered a little, involuntarily. She wondered if she would have disappeared as quickly as the meat if she had screamed. Harvey had no more food for the animal below. It waited an instant, then slowly sank. The waters closed where the head had been. Beth felt as though she were wakening from a horrible nightmare. "Three cheers for Beth," cried Harvey so unexpectedly that she gave a great start. "Was it a dragon?" asked Beth with her eyes unnaturally big. He laughed. "A dragon—— No, indeed. It's only a 'gator." "A 'gator—— Would it really have eaten me if I had screamed?" "It might, although I said that to try you. They do say, though, that 'gators sometimes eat pickaninnies. The Northerners who come down here winters are killing off the 'gators pretty fast, so the pickaninnies are likely to live. Now mind, Beth, don't say a word about my 'gator. You see if my folks heard about it, they might put a stop to my feeding it. They don't think 'gators as nice as I do." "I think they are just horrid." Harvey laughed. "Oh, you'll like them in time." She had her doubts about ever being fond of such pets, but did not say so. "I can't whistle, but would it come if I could whistle, Harvey?" He looked very superior. "No, indeed. It won't come for any one but me." "How did you get it to come for you?" "Well, you see, I used to watch that 'gator in the river; then began bringing food for it. I reckon it thought that an easy way to live, and it soon grew to know me. Then it learned my whistle. That's all." Beth now remembered that her half hour must be more than over. "Harvey, I must go. Good-bye." "Wait a minute. I say, I really like you, and will teach you how to fish some day." This was the greatest compliment he could pay her, for he was an expert angler, and had never allowed a girl to share in the sport with him. Such an invitation as he had just extended surprised even himself, but he actually hoped that it would be accepted. He even decided to set a definite time. "Come here—well, say Monday afternoon between four and five." "I'll come if mamma will let me." "Remember, you mustn't tell any one about the 'gator." "Not even mamma?" "No, indeed. You wouldn't break your word, would you?" "I never do that." "You're a trump, Beth. Good-bye." She skipped back towards the house, revelling in her adventure now that it was over. Being called a trump by Harvey pleased her, but even this praise only half reconciled her for keeping any secret from her mother. Halfway up the avenue, a homely, impudent, scraggy little dog, sprang from among the trees and yelped at Beth. A ragged little darky followed. Beth had never seen any human being quite so ragged. "Come 'way, Fritz. What yo' mean by jumpin' on de missy?" Beth eyed doubtfully both the dog and his master. The latter looked at her reassuringly. "Yo' needn't be 'fraid, missy. I won't let Fritz hurt yo'." "I—afraid—of him! He don't look as if he could harm anything," and Beth laughed. The boy appeared grieved. "Really, missy, he's a wonderful dog. I'll show yo' what he can do. Come, Fritz, dance for missy." The ragged leader held up a warning finger. Fritz wagged his stubby tail, but did not budge. "Come, come, Fritz. Dance for de missy." Fritz wagged his stubby tail more vigorously, but gave no other response. The boy looked wise. "He's bashful, missy, jes' like me. Perhaps, if I whipped him like my mother whips me——" "Does she whip you?" "Yes, 'deed she does—if she kotches me," added the boy laughingly. "If I'd whip Fritz, he'd dance, but I likes him too well to whip him." Beth liked all dogs, with or without pedigree, and said warmly: "I wouldn't whip him either, but it's too bad he won't dance. I'd really like to see him." Again the boy said coaxingly, "Fritz, do dance," but the dog was not to be coaxed. The boy frowned. "Yo'll think he can't dance, but 'deed he can. Maybe, if I dance, he'll dance too." At the word, the ragged pickaninny began whistling, and then he capered around and around performing some wonderful steps. Whereupon Fritz began to bark and caught at his master's heels. "Stop, Fritz, stop," but the dog would not heed, and so the dancing came to a sudden stand-still. The pickaninny cocked his head on one side and whispered to Beth: "He's out of sorts with me. I'm disgraced in his sight. He can dance so much bettah 'n me." "Can he really?" "Oh, a hundred times bettah." "He must be a wonderful dog"—Beth was about to add, "Although he doesn't look it," and then desisted out of consideration for the dog's master. "He's mighty smart. Why, 'less yo'd see all the tricks he does, yo'd never believe dem. Besides dancin', he jumps the rope, plays ball, says his prayers, gives his paw, jumps that high yo' wouldn't b'lieve it possible, rolls over——" "What kind of dog is he?" The boy scratched his head. "Well, missy, I can't jes' 'xactly say." "If he is so very wonderful, you ought to know." The boy was nonplused for a moment. Then he declared triumphantly; "Angels am very wonderful, ain't they? But yo' can't say 'xactly what they am." Beth had not been much impressed by the dog, but now she began to feel astounded that she had had so little discernment. "I'd like to own such a dog," she said. "I'd give him to yo', only I couldn't spare him. Fritz never goes any place widout me. But, I'll tell yo' what: I'll let yo' play with him when yo' want to." "Do you work for us?" Again the boy laughed. "I work for yo'? No, 'deed; I'se too no 'count to work for the likes of yo'. I wuz jes' cuttin' 'cross fields through yo'r yard. If Titus found me here, he'd kick me an' Fritz out." "What is your name?" "Caesar Augustus Jones, but they calls me Gustus. I wish I could work for yo'." Beth pondered a moment. "If you did, would you keep Fritz here?" Gustus caught the trend of her thoughts. His eyes sparkled and his teeth gleamed. "Me and Fritz 'd stay all the time—nights, too, if yo' wanted." "I'll ask papa. He'll take you to please me, I know. Come on." Gustus hung back, and his face sobered. "Why, what's the matter?" "Titus 'll kick me." "I won't let him. Come on." Thus encouraged, Gustus and Fritz followed her as she ran to the front steps, and on into a large old-fashioned hall. She stopped, momentarily, to peek into rooms on either side. There were two apartments on the right. She afterwards learned that they were parlor and library. On the left was one spacious room designed either for a sitting-room or a bedroom. At the end of the hall was the dining-room, running two-thirds of the way across the house. To Beth's surprise, she found the table unset, and no one within. She feared she had missed luncheon. Chancing, however, to look out through an open door, she immediately gave a little cry of delight, for she beheld Mr. and Mrs. Davenport and Marian seated at a table on the roomy piazza that ran between the dining-room and the kitchen. Beth seized Gustus by the hand and drew him towards the family party. Fritz bounded and yelped at their heels. His cries attracted the attention of the occupants of the piazza. "Why, Elizabeth Davenport, what——" "Oh, papa, this is Gustus, and I want you to let him work for us. This wonderful, wonderful dog is his, and if Gustus works for us, I can have Fritz to play with." Beth stopped an instant for breath, which gave some of the others a chance to speak. "Mamma, aren't his rags disgraceful?" whispered Marian to her mother. "James, what shall we do?" Mr. Davenport addressed the boy. "Are you looking for work?" Gustus hung his head, but managed to say: "Yes, massa, an' little missy 'lowed yo'd hire me and Fritz." "Oh, papa, please, please hire them. Fritz is such a very wonderful dog." Whereupon Indianna Scott, who was acting as waitress, spoke up: "Don't yo' b'lieve dat, missy. Dat dog am nothin' but a no 'count fice." Beth had never heard a dog called a fice. She feared it might be something very terrible. Afterwards she learned that it was a Southern provincialism for a common dog. "Do you know the boy, Indianna?" "I know of him, massa. His paw am dead, an' his maw has a dozen or so of chilun, an' dey are so pooh dat the maw can't get clothes 'nuff to cover dem. Dey say as how dis boy am always braggin' of his dog, and dat the dog am no 'count." Gustus lost his hang-dog appearance. His eyes snapped. "Dat ain't true. Fritz kin do all I say, only he's bashful." Fritz did not appear very bashful, but was capering around Beth. However, her heart was won, and she cried: "Anyway, Gustus, you and I love Fritz, don't we? Dear papa, please, please keep them." "What can you do, Gustus?" he asked slowly. "I—I kin brush flies," cried he exultantly. "The boy must have some clothes, anyway. Come with me, and we'll see what we can do for you," said Mrs. Davenport. Beth felt that she had won. In her joy she cried: "Here, Fritz, you stay with me." Fritz gladly obeyed. His hungry little stomach craved some of the chicken a la Creole which was being passed to Beth. As she started to put some of it into her mouth, she felt something pawing her lap. Fritz was making his wants known. Needless to say, he got some chicken from her, and from that time on these two became fast friends. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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